


nothing but everything

by Theboys



Series: what a time to be alive [3]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Basketball, First Dates, M/M, Misunderstandings, basketball player!Jared, journalist!jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 14:31:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8536804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: He’s trying to decide whether or not he wants to wear a tie; Jared told him to dress semi-casual, and he’s from a small-ass town where he and Chris used to dunk the other choir-boys down the well just after Sunday Mass.
Jared takes Jensen on the promised date, and things are great, until they're not.





	

Jensen’s nervous. He’s loathe to admit it but he is, stuck in this 3 x 5 matchbox of a bathroom, and he’s 90% sure that’s Chad’s spunk on the wall closest to the mirror.

He’s trying to decide whether or not he wants to wear a tie; Jared told him to dress semi-casual, and he’s from a small-ass town where he and Chris used to dunk the other choir-boys down the well just after Sunday Mass.

He’s not exactly sure what  _ casual  _ entails. Down home, it’d mean Jensen could break out his Stetson and maybe some scuffed-up boots from way back in his closet, but this is downtown Chicago nightlife, and people know Jensen’s name now.

He’s got an advance that secured Chris every last one of the payments on his Ford and Jensen’s looking around at Carmax to try and figure out what he might like to call his own.

Money’s still tight in his fist and he counts out a wad of six twenties, hopes that’s enough for some kind of respectable tip wherever Jared’s planning on taking him.

The superstar hasn’t so much as touched his hand since they kissed, and Jensen’s put-off and impressed by it at the same time.

He’s sure that it means that Jared’s just upholding his end of the bargain, and he got a free expose out of it too. Jensen drops his razor against the sink, holds his left wrist in his right hand so that he can brace himself.

He cannot do this. He’s barely been able to meet with Jared for the past month and a half, shakingly recording every nuance of Jared’s speech.

Jared laughs when he recalls stories of his youth, living just outside Dallas, Dad’s got stock and clout with the Spurs and he spent his formative years halfway training with the team.

He’s got background commercials from the 90’s, surprisingly straight-toothed grin for a child, unruly flyaway hair he still keeps up in a bun on the court.

His uncle played for the Hornets in their prime, Lakers the year after that. He talks about it in casual sentences, cocks his head to the side like he’s discussing the grocery list. It doesn’t much matter to him.

“Basketball’s in my blood,” he quips, knocks shoulders with Jensen and almost sends him toppling over the side of Jared’s slick-smooth couch.

“I always wanted to play. I was always pretty good at it. Never much thought about doin’ anything else.” He pauses, rubs denim in between two fingers and Jensen focuses on that, the splay of fabric where there usually is none; Jared is a Nike-boy, contracted to them by marrow and ink.

“Do you think that’s weird?” Jared asks plainly, same as he does everything else, not one for guile. “I, uh,” Jensen says, glances over at the recorder, sleek contraption Jared had bought for his express use. Jensen’d been content to use his IPhone.

“Do. Can I pause it?” Jensen asks, flushes at the question and wrings his hands together. He probably wants it all for posterity and Jared looks down at the coffee table and laughs in acknowledgment.

“Keep it or leave it, man. I figure, you’ll know what to keep and what to trash.” Jared sits back, knocks those long legs wide and Jensen wonders just what he’d do if he were to climb in between them.

Jensen cuts the machine off decisively and pulls both legs underneath him, turns sideways so that he can see Jared better.

“N--no. It’s probably nice. It’s nice,” he amends, “to know. Knowing what you wanna do for the rest of your life.” Jared’s staring hard at him and it makes his whole body flush with color and warmth.

“Like you got a purpose.” Jensen nods to himself, once, twice, and Jared scoots into his space, point of his knee to the inside of Jensen’s shin. 

“Is that what you think?” Jared says, firm like Jensen’s only heard him once before. “That this is my purpose? My big thing?” Jensen opens his mouth like a fish but Jared presses just that bit closer and Jensen’s mouth flutters closed.

“It’s alright, to do this thing I love?” Jared looks like it really matters, no jokes and Jensen wouldn’t know how to make one regardless.

“If you love it,” Jensen says helplessly, “then it’s not even a question.”

Which brings him back to the task at hand. He’s got an off-brand tie in his fist and he’s still trying to remember how his dad taught him to wind it around his neck when there’s a sharp knock at the door.

Chris and Chad are off screwing one another in Chris’ new truck, probably, since neither of them have ever seen where Chad stays in the rare instances he’s not breathing Jensen’s fucking air.

Jensen eyes the white-cream on the plaster warily and jogs out of the bathroom and the four paces needed to meet his front door. 

He doesn’t bother looking through the peephole, even though he really should, neighborhood like this is unsafe even during the day, but he knows Jared has to sneak around in order to get through this city like a human being, and he doesn’t like to make him wait.

Jared’s patient in a way Jensen was never prepared for, and he’s in a black hoodie, hands tucked deep in his pockets.

His head is ducked low, like that’s supposed to disguise his otherworldly height, and Jensen can’t help but laugh at the half-assed attempt at subterfuge. 

“C’mon, c’mon, or your neck’ll get bent like that,” Jensen teases, and Jared snorts none-too-quietly, ducks into the doorway.

Jensen steps back to allow him space, and realizes he’s got his tie in one hand and a grey v-neck on. He’s not remotely dressed and he huffs a sigh down at himself.

“S-sorry,” he offers, “I thought I had more time. I’ll finish gettin’ ready and we can go.” He makes to turn but Jared catches him around the forearm, easy as you please and drags him back front and center.

“What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?” Jared tugs his hood off and doesn’t release his grip. Jensen’s in boots, regular curled toe, and Jared’s waiting for an answer.

“You said we were going out,” Jensen explains, “and to dress semi-casual,” Jensen continues, and Jared moves his hand to span the back of Jensen’s neck.

“You look fine. This is fine,” Jared says, and then he moves his other hand to tip Jensen’s head back and up.

“Christ. C’mere,” Jared says firm but hurried, and Jensen’s mouth parts pink and wet and Jared takes advantage of the opportunity, as he’s wont to do.

He slots his mouth over top Jensen’s, carves out a space like he owns the area and Jensen’s just been paying him a flat rate for rent.

The palm on the nape of his neck tightens almost violently and tugs him upwards. Jensen’s got no inches left with which to meet Jared and he ends up on his tiptoes, hands clutched in the slick fabric of athletic gear.

Jared bites down on his lower lip, gentility an afterthought, and Jensen feels it split, just a small rend down the center, and Jared grunts, soothes the ache with a flick of his tongue.

Jensen’s barely a participant at this point, panting into the trap of Jared’s lips, and that hand holding his chin captive moves down to grip firmly at the swell of his ass in denim.

He uses the handful to tug Jensen flush and then Jared’s pulling away, but not before Jensen tentatively rubs the thick line of dick against Jared’s thigh in a heady afterthought.

“Oh, fuck, you gotta stay back,” Jared says, breathes the way he does when Jensen meets him at training camp. 

“W-wha--what?” Jensen says, addled. Jared laughs, a touch of hysteria in the sound that Jensen’s never heard before, and he releases Jensen somewhat but he’s still got his left hand cupped around flesh and Jensen grinds back experimentally, wants to feel that hand growing tighter.

“I came to take you out,” Jared says, off-kilter in a way that Jensen’s never seen him, not even when he’s sharing personal stories from his childhood.

“I wanna take you someplace nice,” Jared continues, one-sided conversation because Jensen’s making the kind of sounds he’s only made once before, and that was in the dark, under the covers and he’d still felt moderately unsafe.

“Jensen,” Jared says, desperation, and Jensen loves that sound. He lives for it, right now.

“Jensen,” he repeats, “I’ll fuck you on this floor. Swear to God I will. An’ I--fuck. Fuck, stop movin’ like that, sweetheart,” he says, and Jensen blinks, can’t keep his eyes from stuttering shut.

“I’ll open you up, I promise, but not here. Not like this,” Jared says, and it’s the quiet kind of  _ awful  _ in his tone that makes Jensen pull back, rub the edge of his thumb on the wound Jared made purposefully.

“That’s right,” Jared says in wonderment, and Jensen thinks he’s about to mirror the movement, tuck the bruised flesh in between index and thumb, but he shakes himself and smiles.

It can’t hide all the night obscuring the church of his eyes, and Jensen fumbles over any words he might say.

“So I was gonna take you to Bavette’s,” Jared says off-handedly, reaches down to play with the spread of Jensen’s fingers, brief brush of webbing.

Jensen nods like he knows what that is, still has his tie gripped in one palm.

“S’this, is this--should I wear my button-down?” He asks, motions to himself even though he know he still looks freshly fucked.

Jared’s looking down on him and doesn’t answer for a second; when he does, his voice sounds like pebbles on sand.

“I was going to,” he repeats, and Jensen’s whole body sags for reasons he can’t rightly explain. “Raincheck?” he offers, tilts his mouth up in what he hopes is a passable smile.

Jared raises his brows, slant of his lips shifting into a decided frown. “You got other plans tonight?” he says shortly, hand tightening around Jensen’s.

He’s confused, shakes his head no so quickly he probably looks like a bobblehead. “Uh, no, no! You said--you just said you were  _ gonna  _ take me--” he hurries to explain, can’t really feel the bones in his fingers anymore.

Jared relinquishes his palm almost instantly, looks chagrined in a way Jensen doesn’t like seeing on him. “I did say that,” he admits, rubs his palm against the nape of his neck.

“Sorry. I get a little. My mom says I’ve never shared...very well,” he explains, teasing edge belying the very real truth underneath it. Jensen nods like he knows fuck-all what that means.

“I thought I would do this right, you know. You’re from Texas, probably love steak about as much as I do and I figured--” he pauses, unzips his jacket just enough to show that he’s got a t-shirt underneath as well, and another pair of those jeans that Jensen knows he hates.

“But Bavette’s is loud and there’d--they’d have cameras once they knew I was coming,” he apologizes, looks sorry for his fame and prestige even though he never, ever is. 

He’s not proud of it, Jensen notes, the first sentence he ever penned about one Jared T. Padalecki, second-born son of a family with a backlog of sports-history.

He’s more reconciled to it than anything, something he worked hard for, did well at, and now he’s here. It’s only to the rest of the world that he’s some kind of savant; a prodigy.

He’s looking at Jensen like he’s waiting, and he wonders if he missed some facet of the conversation.

“W--what?” Jensen stutters unhappily, does it more than he used to, even as a kid. “Did you want to go to Bavette’s,” he repeats, patient, and a little fond.

“Oh! Huh, no. No, not if you don’t. If it’s gonna be loud and--and the paps are gonna be there.” Jensen licks his lips, mouth abruptly dry at the thought of having to share Jared anymore than he’s already obligated to.

Jared grins, good humor restored almost immediately and tugs the tie right out of Jensen’s loose fist. “Alright,” he says, claps his hands together. “I was thinking we’d go to Music Box,” he says, and Jensen blinks up, stupid as usual.

“Have you been?” he prods, when Jensen can’t seem to make words. “N--no,” he says, plunges ahead. “I didn’t have much. I’ve had a real tight budget since I got here, and so me and Chris haven’t been out in the city,” he says, wonders where all his ease around Jared has gone.

Jared tilts his head to the side, thoughtful, and leans down to drag Jensen in by the waist, torso to torso. Jensen has to lean his head back to see any of Jared’s face at all, and he still almost misses the kiss Jared presses to his forehead, quick and near-silent.

“They’re playing Rolling Thunder tonight,” he says gently, like Jensen’s gonna scare easy and fly off. “Chris told me you guys used to have old-movie marathons,” he explains, Jensen’s still mute. 

“I didn’t know where else to take you,” Jared continues, and Jensen ducks his head and smiles down at himself, can barely keep it in check.

“If this isn’t okay, please tell me,” Jared says, and Jensen knocks his forehead just under Jared’s collarbone, far as he can reach.

Jared laughs, it rumbles all the way up from the pit of his chest to explode out of his mouth and Jensen can feel the huff of air that comes with it on the crown of his head. 

“What?” Jared asks, moves both arms to encircle Jensen’s waist with quiet ease. “What’s up?”

Jensen shakes his head dumbly, rubbing up against the edge of muscle. “I love Tommy Lee Jones,” he says, and Jared gives him a for-real laugh this time.

-

Jensen’s fingers are butter-sticky when they leave, and he realizes that Jared keeps a running commentary during movies that would be annoying if it weren’t so endearing.

He’s more than capable of shutting up, but Jensen can’t quit goading him on with involuntary laughter, knocks into his ribs with an elbow more than once.

They sit in the back, hope that Jared’s obvious height won’t give them away.

They don’t speak when they walk down the street so that nobody recognizes Jared’s voice and Jared’s quick to press a kiss to the crown of his head just before lights flood the small theater and they file out. 

Jensen wants to grab at his hand; it’s a Friday night and he hates crowds, but the story isn’t published yet and he’d hate for anyone to see them together before Jared’s ready.

He shoves fists down in his jacket pockets and keeps his head down, following behind Jared as close as he dares.

Jared’s looking up, scanning over everyone’s heads, and he whirls around to check on Jensen’s whereabouts. 

“You okay?” He mouths, and Jensen bites his lip, nods carefully. Jared jerks his head in the direction of the doorway as if to indicate that they’re almost home-free, and that’s around when shit hits the fan.

“Yo! Yo, that’s JT! Swear to God, man, look! Tyler, fucking look, man! Up there! Right there, stupid, tall motherfucker in the hoodie!”

Jensen hears the exclamation before Jared does, closer to the source, and his spine stiffens in response.

“No shit, man! No fucking way!” The clamor is instantaneous and Jared notices immediately, years and years of living in the public spotlight. His eye catches Jensen in a frantic sort of way that Jensen’s never seen him make, and it’s unsettling, to say the least.

Jared grins abruptly, big and happy, (somewhat feigned, but they don’t know much better), and now there are IPhones out and women are hollering and they’ve spilled out onto the street.

Jared stays in front of him the whole time, carefully arranges his bulk so that Jensen’s shielded from the worst of it.

He reaches his hand behind him, and his knuckles brush up against Jensen’s abdomen twice before Jensen realizes he’s trying to hand him something.

Jensen uncurls Jared’s fist himself, spies the car keys and plucks them neatly from the grip.

He takes his cue, navigates around the mess of people, the news is showing up now, asking questions and Jensen can barely hear his own heartbeat, loud and tossed around by the chaos.

He remembers where they parked and he heads there in an almost-jog and he wonders exactly how Jared’s gonna pick up his car when it’s all said and done.

He considers the idea that they’ll be splashed across the Tribune come morning, Jared out and proud, and Jensen with nothing but ruins to show for it.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> comments/things y'all want to see?


End file.
